7. DMITRI

7

DMITRI

Coach Forrester is punishing me for the fight I started last time we played Seattle. That's why I'm on the bench. He's trying to prove that Vancouver can win without me.

Except, it's not working.

We aren't winning.

But we aren't losing either.

The game is tied in regulation, and now it's three-on-three, sudden-death overtime. I should be on the ice. My legs twitch and my teeth grind as I watch my team get checked against the boards by the Blades.

This is the first game I've not played in… too long to remember. I hate it so much my stick bends under my hands. It's been cutthroat skating this entire game, but the other team's overpowering us now. We need a defenseman who can strip them of the puck. The team needs me.

Forrester doesn't look my way.

Three minutes later, it's too late because Seattle gets the puck past our goalie.

They win. Game over.

We're in Vancouver so the fan disappointment is crushing. The crowd shuffles out loudly.

At least she wasn't in the stands watching.

Back in the dressing room, Coach tells us to rest. We'll be spending all day tomorrow reviewing game footage and doing drills.

Some players toss around an informal dinner invitation, but I ignore them. Instead, I see Forrester in his office. My gut pitches as he takes his time acknowledging me. Not playing tonight protected my knee, but if I stay benched, it sends a message that my contract is not worth renewing. That the team doesn't need me.

Just like my dad's team stopped needing him as soon as he got injured.

After that, I know what happens next. You drop to the injured reserve list and then quietly get retired off the team permanently. No more hockey.

What's left? Drinking and depression, apparently.

"Lokhov. What can I do for you?" Forrester asks.

"I've learned my lesson."

"Lesson?"

"Don't bench me again. I need to play."

Coach pushes the papers on his desk to the side. He folds his hands together and leans forward. "That last fight of yours almost lost us the game, but it's not the reason I didn't put you in today. The Blades were out for blood. Specifically yours, because you took out their captain for the next few games. I didn't want to see you get hurt. You're no good to me injured."

I stiffen. I'm already injured. "I can handle them."

If they don't target my knee, and if I stick to my strict routine of massage, physiotherapy, and ice baths. Pain compartmentalization. If I keep lying and brushing off the doctors on the team. And maintain zero distractions of any kind.

"I notice you don't have any camaraderie with the team."

My nostrils flare. What does that have to do with anything? Instead of partying, drinking, and socializing, I keep myself disciplined. Alone. That's how I recovered from this knee injury enough to go professional in the first place.

"The way I play requires complete focus," I tell Coach, hoping he respects that.

He picks up a pen. "Listen to me, son. What I want is a group of men who work together. Your discipline is second to none, but it's not everything in this game. The reason we lost the Cup last year is that when the pressure hit, the bonds between our players didn't hold. They fell apart. If we want redemption, having one player go lone wolf will not cut it. You need to understand each other on and off the ice. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

No. You don't need to be friends to get the job done. This sounds like psychological crap to me. But my contract is up for renewal. I'm not disagreeing with the man who controls my future.

"Get closer to the team," orders Forrester, dismissing me with a nod. "You know what's at stake."

It doesn't need to be said.

If I don't connect like the coach wants, I could be traded. But if I let the team in, they could get close enough to learn about my knee and how much rehab it requires after every game to function again. If anyone discovers that secret, there will be blood in the water. An injured player is a ticking time bomb. Dozens of men will line up, trying to take my spot on the ice.

My mouth flattens.

I've got to find another way.

My past has already taught me that letting anyone in is a huge mistake. You go into a bar you shouldn't have gone to. You end up getting injured, defending someone who doesn't really care about you, busting open your knee. The injury stalks you for the rest of your career.

No, it's much better for me to stay alone. I have to keep myself whole by keeping myself apart.

That's the decision I make, right as I get a message from Kavi Basra.

KAVI:

Please tell me you have my backpack with my camera in it????